


What Five Drinks Will Do To You

by MathDuck



Category: Dorian Gray - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:12:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathDuck/pseuds/MathDuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fire of desire burning him to the very edge of his sanity...</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Five Drinks Will Do To You

**Author's Note:**

> [FINISHED] its difficult to believe but in the last 2 days, ive increased the volume of this fic by, something like, 574%. mister wilde, i am deeply, deeply sorry (not really)

"… I will have you know, the ladies _do_ tend to be screaming." The younger man gloats, lighting up a cigarette as he walks through the front door. It is around ten o'clock, at night, and I've, barely, slept since the night before. I remove my scarf and drape it over my favourite armchair chair in Dorian's residence; the one that resides in the main room, beside the gorgeous, Asian-inspired canapé.  
"Any more forceful and you would have broken that lads' neck. You scared him half to death, Dorian." I sigh, warningly. Dorian had no more than insisted that we were to finish up our business in his own residence.  
"Never mind him, it is _you_ I want to pay more attention to." The dark-haired man grins, a sly chuckle escaping him, stubbing out his cigarette and sauntering over to me, trailing warm, flawless lips over the velvety skin of my throat.

"Let me have a drink, first." Dorian pulls back, his chest heaving. The look he gives me is precious and should be captured, in itself. The desperation, the desire, the want, the need, the… _lust_. "Please, indulge me." Either way, his fingers, deftly, fumble for the bottle of gin and two glasses, never breaking my tense stare. My muse pours us, both, a drink, each, and hands me mine. In drinking the gin in question, I stiffen, ever so slightly. At this, Dorian moves closer and traces his thumbs over the buttons on my trousers, his lips tugging at the top buttons of my shirt.

On his fifth, and final, drink, Dorian, practically, tears at my hair to kiss me, fiercely. Naturally, this shocks me as I drop the glass and it goes tumbling onto the small couch. And with that, the alcohol and lust combine, causing me to almost leap on my muse, landing us on the canapé, my hands and eyes roaming for anything they can find. Every moan is a symphony. Every touch a luxury. Every glance a masterpiece. Every kiss a lustful reminder that I am _this close_ to perfection.

Dorian arches in closer as he unbuttons his own shirt and puts himself on display.  
"Basil, are you, by any chance, _admiring_ me?" Asks the younger man, smiling, proudly. I waste no precious time with talk and seat myself, properly, on the canapé as he gets up, slowly, exposing a thick, throbbing organ from his own undergarments. Now, I, finally, talk.  
"Maybe… Dorian, you've made the both of us wait too long for this…" I shiver as I, slowly, shyly, lick the blushing crown. A long, breathy groan is pulled from the youth's lungs as his length is teased and tormented by that slow-paced tongue, racing up and down his organ. He throws his head back as a hand is risen to, roughly, almost violently, knead the sacks of untended flesh beneath my squirming mouth.

A moan as wandering fingers find his twitching, eager opening, immediately, I push in a digit. He mouths curses to the air as each movement is one step closer to the rapture. His cheeks flush. For an, arguably prudish, artist, I seem to have, exceptional, knowledge on where to prod, push and tease.  
"My dear, Basil… I fear it is too soon, judging by your movements…" He tangles his fingers in locks of soft, flowing hair, not for dominance. On the contrary, for support. The mere thought of this thought-provoking experience threatens to push the youth over the edge. How the mere alcohol can cloud one's mind so much. How it can change ones perception of everything. "I wanted you more desperate for me…" He lets loose a brief, short-lived chuckle before a long, loud cry escapes his lips, my teeth scraping over the very tip of his manhood. "Basil!" The voice of a mischievous angel, Satan, himself, possibly. Maybe, not even God could create such a divine and beautiful subject. The cry of his fast climax almost makes me reach the end of my wick. The fire of desire burning me to the very edge of my sanity.

Inexperienced and, ever so slightly, embarrassed, I rise from my spot down by Dorian's hip, cheek smeared with the perfect man's fluid completion. A soft, pink tongue moves from full, pouting lips and I feel the squirming flesh against my jaw, my hand moving to cup Dorian's chin. Flawless and immaculate, Dorian's tongue finds its way into my mouth, sliding against my pallet, running along my teeth. And there is just... There is just a moment, when all the stars align...

Dorian reaches behind him, snatching my scarf from the other chair and coiling it around my throat, tightly. Pulling it, tauter and tauter, he then ties the other end to a statue of an eagle, carved into the gold-painted wood of the canapé. Now, restricted, I dare not move. Beautiful, delicate, slender fingers, languidly, trace the buttons of my shirt, slowly, slipping them back, through the button holes, exposing my less-than-elegant bust. Dark hair covers the center of my chest but only slightly, one can barely notice it. A silken fingertip, torpidly, maps circles on a sensitive area on my breast, forcing salacious, shallow-breathed whines to bubble forth from my lungs.

I, then, and only then, realise that it has barely been a day since Dorian Gray first kissed me. I was perturbed, at first, but then... _he returned for more_ , silently, telling me; that previous kiss was anything but an accident. When I did not react, his blooming lips moved to my throat, lips and teeth and tongue, all skating over my fluttery, timorous flesh. Before that moment, I, Basil Hallward, always believed that love-making was a kind of sport; a competitive game where two lovers would clash and sweat and grow vertiginous with how, amazingly, humid it may get within the confines of one's chosen room. Now, I am wiser. I, now, know that love-making is an art form. One may act upon themselves or there may be many, _many_ lovers. Either way, love-making is temptation put into physical action. Beauty and desire, finally, screaming together at the back of one's mind and inching them, closer and closer, to _oblivion_.

This is what Dorian taught me.

"You are, utterly, gorgeous, dear Basil... I dare not think of how many times you may have laid back to think of me..." He reaches for the straining buttons on my trousers.  
"... How many times have you thought of me, Dorian?" I, nearly, choke on my own breath as I look him in the eyes. Crouching down, like a predator getting ready to devour his prey, his dark eyes burn with temptation and I, simply, know that he is going to go into unambiguous, unequivocal detail about it.  
"Oh, Basil. Dear, _dear_ Basil. I fell for you the moment I saw you. You were innocent, sacred, undefiled so I found it unfit to share my imaginary, midnight liaisons with you but, seeing as you asked..." Savagely, he tears away my trousers and undergarments so he can get to my impetuous, leaking girth. "Well, I used to have a favourite fantasy, at night. I would close my eyes, lean back and... _satisfy_ myself, whilst I was thinking of you." If I did not know better, I may mistake those pauses as anxiety or embarrassment. Parenthetically, he coils elegant, long, thin fingers around my thick girth, beginning to stroke me. "I used to imagine that you were painting me again. Naked, this time. You had... _inserted_ things into me, into my body, and you were painting me, just like that. You studied me, watching how I twitched and twisted when you asked me to insert another paintbrush." The image flits through my head and, suddenly, he is stroking me faster, rubbing exquisitely soft fingers up and down my needy flesh. "I used to think of that and I barely needed to even touch myself because, just the thought of that, made me--"

"Dorian! _Please... Faster...!!_ " Trapping my bottom lip between my teeth, I stare up at him with dark, burning, passionate eyes. Thankfully, he complies and I have to stop myself from bucking up. I cannot help it, my pelvis cantering. I can only move my hips, in my awkward position, being tied to the couch and all. My eyes roll back into my head as the youth leans down to pass a warm breath over the crown of my manhood, as you would when shining a medal or brooch. I can just feel his eyes on me, burning into the very recesses of my soul, scouring it for traces of sin. Sweat beads on my brow and I begin to pant, only shallowly due to the tight scarf coiled around my trachea.

I cannot find a single word to describe the feeling of a violent, long-awaited, oncoming expulsion... Almost as if one is driving a steam train onto an unfinished bridge. All the time coming up to the bridge, one is building speed and building speed until they cannot, possibly, go any faster and then they fly off of the bridge and there is just this joyful, resplendent sensation of floating, that only lasts for a couple of brief seconds... All this before they crash into the deep, dark ravine below, their mind crashing and going blank while their body shudders and goes fraught...

I'm brought back to my abstract, unbelievable reality by Dorian's smooth, oaky voice.  
"Please, Basil, let me taste you. I want to know what your innocence tastes like as it leaves your immortal soul." Reaching a dream-like state, I grasp onto the cushioning of the canapé with shaking fingers, near tearing the fabric, and then...the train crash occurs... White flashes before my eyes, then black, as I cry out something, most likely his opulent name, as my limbs grow stiff, every bone in my body shaking with my release. I yell, again and again, until his name is just a dying echo on my lips and my muscles go lax.

Dorian unties me from the couch and pulls me to him, pressing our bodies together, his lips reaching mine but, this time, I can taste something odd on his tongue. Something, almost, bitter-sweet. Fierce kiss after bloodthirsty kiss, he still manages to speak.  
"Do you taste yourself, Basil...? Do you feel the weight of purity lifted from your shoulders?" He asks, coiling a palm around both of our still-erect girths. Flinching, I groan, headily, into his embrace, my hands crawling to the back of his neck, sliding into his locks of soft, hazel-coloured hair. "Catch your breath; we have much to do once you have recovered." The youth purrs as his lips fall back to my throat, where I am beginning to collect dark, red marks and welts.

This is not the innocent, young boy I used to know. This is not the boy I painted. He has...changed somehow and my picture remains a distant shadow, a hollow shell, of what he used to be. He looks the same yet his demeanour has changed but the dark heat that possesses my body leads me to forget and lose my train of thought. An idea, a horrible, dreadful, cruel idea, enters my head; this is simply a 'new sensation', surely. This isn't out of affection or adoration, simply, out of experimentation and self-satisfaction... Of course, my muse just cares for himself... He never used to adopt this attitude. Dear Dorian, what _have_ you become...?

We both grow harder and I can feel that same inferno in my belly as I did last night, when he pressed his tongue against my neck. I adore the feel of his hand, slick with pre-ejaculate, on my skin, which is pressed against his own flushed, heated flesh. I lean into the crook of his neck but he stands from the couch, smiling, smugly, down at me. He makes sure to strip down, completely, before he budges me off the canapé and poises himself on hand and knee.  
"Come, I want to feel you _inside_ me, Basil..." The breathy sound of his voice drives me insane and I get onto my knees behind him, my hands gracing his sides and stroking every, visible inch of his pale skin.

I enter him, tentatively, not driving in, immediately, not completely sure, myself, on what to do. I feel him shiver around me as our hips meet, my length sheathed, perfectly, inside him.  
" _Please..._ I need you to move, dear Basil..." Dorian all but purrs from before me and I grasp onto his shoulder blades, going with primal instinct as to what to do next. I draw back out, a finger tracing the visible vertebrae on his arching spine. Simply, gagging for more, he grabs at the fabric of the canapé, moaning, filthily. The second time our hips meet, he gasps, rolling his shoulders and I move my hand to his hip, grasping tight enough to leave dark bruises. "Faster, Basil, _please_ , you know you want to..." Not wasting anymore time, I begin drawing out at a much increased pace and driving back in with all the force I can, trying to get in as deep as possible, to get swallowed in that gullet of pulsing heat.

Soon, my movements are little more than blurs before my eyes as another orgasm approaches me, head on, like an on-coming train. Gasps and whines froth from my lips and drip, like nectar, from my jaw, only fuelling my fire to leave this boy in pieces, only a shadow of his former self. His body connects to mine, like a paintbrush meets a palette of paint. It is beauty and wonder about to occur. Both of us can see it coming. Both of us can feel that train about to hit us. At the last minute, I lurch forward, threading my fingers through his hair, clenching my fingers, harshly, and holding his head back as I drive in and out of him.  
" _God...!_ Basil, harder! _Please!!_ " Our hips meet one, last time and I whine as my expulsion hits.  
"Dorian... Please, take it all..." I can feel the heat leaving me to fill the youth, shimmering with a cold sweat. I stoop to rub my stubbled cheek against his pale, impeccable back, him, panting, heatedly. He has the ardour, the _sexual appetite_ , of a glutton; avid, avaricious, rapacious, pleonectic. It is _fervid_ and he is _voracious_.

"Oh, Basil... That was wonderful..." Dorian groans as he sits back up, facing me and pushing two fingers into himself. "I loved every second of it." He states, his free hand pulling me down to kiss him. I taste blood in his mouth and it, soon, becomes apparent that he bit his tongue in the process of my pleasuring him. "Please, let me reciprocate the feeling." Removing his dripping fingers from his seam, he pushes them into my mouth, filling me with that feeling of unshakeable heat and humidity.

Fully stripping me down, he urges me to the head of the canapé, placing my hands onto the wooden frame, bracing me against it. He parts me, like Moses did the Red Sea, and I prepare myself for the intrusion. Instead of the blunt organ, I, suprisingly, feel his wet, squirming tongue against me. My clean body feels dirty, sullied, by this action and it's so base, so primal, that I can barely voice my appreciation.  
"I'm to prepare you, Basil... I dare not hurt you as you are my pale, delicate rose... I dare not break you, in fear of your petals wilting and dropping off of your gorgeous self..." His tongue coasts over my seam and I arch my back. The very tip of his tongue circles my seam before it slides in, penetrating me, and he relishes in the noises that fall from my mouth as my fingers tighten around the frame of the canapé, my knuckles turning bone-white.

"D-Dorian, please, not so _deep_..." A wisp of sweat-slicked hair falls and my dark sienna eyes grow a liquid black as my pupils dialate. I need to see more, to take more of what Dorian is giving me. A single, slender digit curls against a specific spot and my whole body jerks, my lungs pushing all the air out of my body, breath hissing through my teeth. " _Th...There... Again..._ " I plead, pushing my face against the cushioning.  
"Again, Basil?" The youth teases, suddenly, adding another digit and curling them both against that spot. It hits me so deep, my body breaking out in shudders and fits of twitches. Leaning down over my back, Dorian pushes fingers into my mouth and I can taste myself on them, my whole anatomy feeling empty, once his fingers are removed from fumbling about my seam.

His tongue traces the shell of my ear, again, as he hisses into it.  
"Are you ready, _my rose_?" Nodding, I prepare myself, readying my frame for his slim, lengthy manhood. He rubs the length of his girth along my seam and I press myself against it, leaning back and, wantonly, moaning. I do not bother trying to stifle myself, anymore. I see no point to it. Master Gray has broken me. "Are you ready for me to ruin you, dear Basil?" He purrs from behind and I yell;  
"Just get on with it!" It starts off as a yell but soon turns into a small, desperate plea.  
"Oh, alright." He pushes in, all brute force and carelessness. He is tearing me, I can feel it. My insides burn as he drives himself in and out of my hot body.

Gripping at my hips, he thrusts into me, implacably, inexorably, the crown of his length hitting that spot inside me that sends thrills rushing up and down my spine.  
" _Dorian! Pl-Please! Slow down! You are going to tear me--_ "  
"Every rose must meet the shears, eventually, Basil." Dorian hisses, grabbing my throat in a hand and dragging me, upright, against his chest. Twisted, again, in an awkward position, I wheeze out my breaths, groaning as the hand, that isn't tightening against my neck, folds against my throbbing, leaking girth, throwing me in front of the train again... "Come, Basil... I want to fill you and hear you scream my name to the high heavens." He works fast and I feel my body reacting faster than it should--

The train hits me, unexpectantly.

"Ah!! Dorian!" Ejaculate splashes my lower abdomen and the canapé. Twisting my head to the side, he captures my lips one last time as he thrusts into me again, pumping his sweet essence into my overly-sensitive body. I can barely even elicit noises, anymore. He has, _thoroughly_ , broken me. The only sounds that come from me are the shallow, heavy, shivery breaths. Dorian pulls out of me and lets me fall onto the canapé, boneless and unable to move due to exhaustion, my body still twitching, involenterily. On the verge of passing out, I lay, there, on the canapé, watching Dorian with half-closed eyes, dark hair plastered to my forehead as I try to catch my breath, fighting the impending doom of falling asleep.

Henry slinks from behind a pillar, quietly, smoking and drinking, as per always, as he throws his arm over Dorian's shoulder, both of them facing me from the other side of the room.  
"I won the bet, Harry. I believe you owe me a sum." The beautiful youth adds with an amused chuckle. Handing Dorian his drink, Henry walks up to me and pets my sweat-drenched hair.  
"Oh, Basil. You just earned Dorian twenty pounds in sleeping with him. I bet you feel so lucky to have been had by him, you must be so proud." He gives me that damn, smug smile as he stands.  
"Don't tease him, Harry. He's been through enough, tonight." Dorian downs Henry's drink and approaches him, again, closer to me, now. My eyes have glassed over.  
"Well, either way, he did it so you deserve the money and Basil will wake up in his bed, tomorrow morning, thinking it was all just a very good dream." Dorian locks lips with Henry, the older man enveloping his bare frame in his huge coat.

"I love you, Harry." Dorian sighs, gently, and Henry breathes cigarette smoke into my face.  
"I know you do, my dear boy." ...

_Fear is the main source of superstition and one of the main sources of cruelty._

**Author's Note:**

> requested by salad hope you like it dude :3


End file.
